Desperate Measures
by Rosethorn
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures. Margaret Dresden has been dead for two years, and now she's coming home. First chapter cowritten by Dark Puck, all beta'd by Priscellie, sequel to Persistent Illusion. Dresdletverse.
1. Chapter 1

Smoke drifted across the corridors still; the greeny-white smoke of misfired spells combining with myriad small fires. The Maligare had put up a good fight, but all six of the wizards were now in custody, their minions had been rounded up, and the two Corpsetakers were safely in the traps. Now all that remained was the cleanup.

Cleanup, and finding whoever Luccio had on the inside. There had to be a mole, even if the Commander hadn't said so explicitly; they could not have caught the Corpsetakers otherwise. But thus far, the mole had not made his or her appearance.

Morgan carefully picked his way through the wreckage of the facility, hoping their mole had not been killed in the battle. He kept a spell ready, just in case they had missed someone during the sweep foolish enough not to surrender peaceably.

A few steps on and he caught a faint sound coming from somewhere to his left, a sniffling. Had one of the locals gotten caught up in the fight? Carefully, he turned toward the noise and prowled in that direction.

The sniffling sound came softly from a mostly-intact room with the door standing open. Inside, a blonde woman sat against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest and her face buried in her arms. She wore the same rough brown dress that the female underlings had worn, and if he had not known very well that Karrin Murphy was dead, he would have thought for a moment that it was her.

Morgan stopped and stared at her. After a moment, he whispered, "...Margaret?"

The woman jumped and scrambled to her feet, scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hand in a familiar gesture. She stared at him, her blue eyes wide, her entire stance speaking of uncertainty and sorrow. After a moment, she managed, "H-hi."

There were a thousand things he could say and a thousand things he could not. None of them could quite convey the feelings running through his mind as he realized that Margaret must have been their inside source. Rather than say anything, he took a step forward and opened his arms.

Her lip trembled, and she ran forward, not bothering to slow down any when she collided with him—she needn't have, anyway, since she had clearly lost a great deal of weight. She buried her face in his chest, like a small child, and started to cry. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean… I'm sorry…"

Morgan hugged her tightly against him, keeping one hand against the back of her head comfortingly. "It's all right, Margaret," he said softly. "It's all right. I understand."

"I couldn't tell anyone," she whispered, then took a deep, trembling breath, and stepped back, visibly forcing herself to calm down. Her hands still shook; she twisted them hard together. "I… how's Arthur? And Julia?"

"Julia is pregnant," he told her softly. "Arthur has his hands full." He didn't tell her that the children missed her; she certainly knew that, and Morgan wasn't the sort to say things they both knew.

She sniffed again, and huffed a laugh. "Good for her. She must… they must be happy." Another hesitation, and then she asked, tentatively, "And Daddy?" She avoided looking at him.

"Still grieving," he told her. "Fine in all other ways."

Margaret bit her lip, and still did not look at him. "And... and you? I mean, it's been..." She trailed off, twisting her hands, and began again. "I guess we won."

"We did," Morgan replied. "We got them." Stepping forward again, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and gave her a paternal kiss on the forehead. "And I'm proud of you, Margaret."

She bit harder into her lip and kept back tears with another visible effort. "I thought you'd be angry."

He shook his head. "You did a very brave, difficult thing, Margaret. And you in no small way helped bring the Maligare down tonight. How could I be angry with you for making such a sacrifice for the greater good?"

She hugged him again, and he could feel that she was trembling, very slightly. "Because I hated it. Every minute. I wanted to be home, and I couldn't tell anyone because it would wreck the whole thing, and I looked like Mom and I was scared all the time and I saw everything…" she drew in a breath and it sounded like a sob.

His returning hug was tight. "It's never easy to work under cover, Margaret."_ This is why I don't do it anymore. _"I would have been worried if you had liked it."

"And you're really not mad at me?" She still sounded vulnerable.

"I'm really not," he assured her gently.

Margaret drew in a deep breath and got control of herself again, though she did not move away. "I want to go home," she said, surprisingly steady. "Can I go home now?"

"It's all over," he replied. "Of course you can go home."

"Will you take me?" she asked, looking up at him. "I don't want to be by myself. I'm scared." What exactly she was scared of, she did not elaborate.

"It would be my pleasure to, Margaret," he told her, kindness in his grey eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered, and hugged him hard once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry had moved back into his old apartment, after Murphy died. The house was hers, after all. It had taken years of marriage before he felt like more than a guest, and after she died he couldn't stand it, walking around corners and expecting to see her there, lying alone on the bed they had shared for so long.

So he'd gone home, back to the apartment with the lab and the bedroom. A new beat-up old couch, to replace the one the girls had vomited on as babies; the same narrow bed he and Murphy had made love on before they married. He was much more comfortable here, anyway, with his feet up on the coffee table, his paperbacks scattered willy-nilly and Mouse flopped in front of the fire. Kind of strange, that his dog had outlived his wife and his older daughter, but then Mouse was clearly immortal.

A spasm of pain clutched his heart, but it was shorter than before. He was recovering.

Sometimes he didn't want to recover.

Anyway. Book. He was reading a book, his old, beat-up copy of _Howl's Moving Castle._ He figured he could read it to his grandkid, whenever Julia gave birth.

She had told him, the last time he saw her, that if the baby was a girl they were going to name her Margaret. And what could he say to that? His Maggie had been named for another Maggie, and now that she was dead it seemed only fitting that another little girl should have that name.

But. There was always a but.

It felt almost cursed, that name. If you had it, you died young. His Maggie had lived a year longer than her namesake, but it was not long enough, not nearly long enough. Two years and it had not stopped hurting.

What was it Morgan had said to him, at the funeral? "No father should have to outlive his child." At least Murphy hadn't had to live through this. It would have killed her if she had.

Book. Now. He was going to read his book, dammit.

Of course, someone chose that moment to knock.

Harry considered not answering. It was Saturday, he wasn't working, Julia would have called ahead before visiting, and there was no one else who might visit. Well, Thomas, but Thomas had run off to Mexico, the traitor, obviously too chicken to face his pregnant niece. Harry decided on the spur of the moment to call his brother during his next visit to Julia. Everyone should suffer with him. And in that mindset, he decided he would not answer the door. Let that other person suffer too.

The person knocked again, and Mouse lifted first an ear, then his entire head to stare at the door. Harry watched the dog, curious, his attention snagged by the movement. Something had clearly caught Mouse's interest, and not much did that these days, besides vampires.

That thought triggered an automatic paranoia. Harry groaned. Was someone trying to kill him _again?_ It really wasn't fair.

He watched as his dog got to his feet and padded over to the door, sniffing along the crack at the bottom. If it was a vampire, he could just leave the door closed, but that would put the rest of the building in danger. Goddamnit, it would be nice if the forces of darkness would take a day off just once_…_

Mouse barked, and flung himself at the door, scratching frantically at it, trying to dig his way out and all the while barking and barking like the world was ending.

Harry jumped to his feet, sending the book flying, and dove for the door. That barking scared him. The last thing that had gotten the dog _that_ worked up had been a Black Court vampire and ye _gods_ he didn't want to deal with one of those.

He shoved Mouse over with an effort, laid a hand against the door and concentrated, feeling outwards carefully for the cold sink of energy that would mean something like a vampire.

Outside his concentration, Mouse began to headbutt the wall desperately.

No cold sink touched his mind. Instead, he encountered a softly glowing haze of magic that meant another wizard, and one of benign intent. For a moment he thought it was Morgan—it had the same sense of ironclad control, the same feeling of hidden strength—but no. There was another sense about it, another feeling, something that _should not_ be there, because the girl whose magic felt that way was dead.

Harry reached for the doorknob in a slow-motion dream, twisted, and pulled the door open.

She was so thin, too thin, and her dark hair had blonde streaks in it. She would not look at his face, but directed her eyes somewhere around his collarbone, and hugged her shirt tight against her body, her arms angled as if to ward off a blow. She looked sick, and lonely, and frightened, and all Harry could think was that his little girl was alive.

"Maggie," he breathed, clutching the doorknob as the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly gone insane. "Stars and stones."

"Hi," she said, her voice wavering. "Can—can I come in?"

He nodded, dumbly, and stepped aside.

Mouse barreled out the door so fast he actually knocked Maggie down, back against the steps. He'd done that before, especially when she was younger; for a good ten years Mouse had weighed more than Maggie did. She was used to it.

She should not have reacted with a sudden terrified cry and her hands up over her face.

"Sit!" Harry barked, and the dog sat, looking puzzled, and a little worried. He probably looked much the same, he thought, dragging Mouse back—Maggie was _used_ to Mouse, this was nothing, it happened all the time. Fear crept in as the shock wore down…what had happened to her?

He crouched down to her level, watching her face closely. "It's just Mouse, Maggie," he said, carefully.

"I know," she said, and lowered her hand, slowly. "I'm sorry."

She was shaking. Why was she shaking? Well, he was shaking too. But she was alive. For two years he had believed she was dead, and she was alive.

Harry gave her a hand up and let her precede him into the apartment. Mouse trotted after her, his head at a worried tilt, and resumed his place by the fire. Meanwhile, Harry closed the door slowly, his back to his daughter, and tried to think of something to say. What _could_ he say? Besides "you're alive." They both knew that.

For two years he had believed she was dead, and she was alive. The shock had gone; a slow, deep, totally unjust anger was starting to build up in his chest. For two years he had believed she was dead; for two years she had let them think she was dead, if she hadn't faked her death to begin with, and he was beginning to be uncertain about even that.

He turned around, said, "Maggie…" and let it die. What could he say?

She had half-collapsed on the couch, her arms still crossed protectively over her chest and her head hanging forward, that blonde-streaked hair covering her expression. She looked so small, so young, and he was so furious with her he could not begin to speak.

"I'm sorry," Maggie said, at last, her voice small and vulnerable. "I didn't mean… I'm so sorry. I wasn't allowed to tell anyone."

"Obviously," Harry not-quite-snapped, and immediately felt guilty when she hunched even further into herself. He took a deep breath through his nose. He would _not_ scream at her, no matter how angry he was. She was clearly traumatized. He would not scream at her.

"Maggie," he said, trying again, and managing a much gentler tone this time. "Why don't you tell me what happened."

She shrugged, and shifted a bit, leaning over a little more. "I had orders," she said, simply. "I couldn't tell anyone, not even Simon. Nobody knew except Commander Luccio. And I…" Her voice faded.

He waited. Mouse wheezed on the exhale, someone upstairs clunked across the ceiling, Maggie's pants scraped across the couch as she shifted again. And finally she looked up, and her eyes were full of tears, and so very, very blue.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. Please…"

She didn't finish, and Harry let it out.

"You're _sorry?"_ he yelled, knowing he was yelling, hating it and unable to stop it. "Two years, Maggie! Two _goddamn_ years! Julia nearly collapsed when I told her, did you know that? Arthur thought she was going to have a stroke. We had a _funeral,_ Maggie. I can show you your own grave. It's right next to your mother's."

Maggie flinched, visibly, and tightened in on herself further. Mentioning Murphy hadn't been fair, but it still hurt _him,_ and it should still hurt _her._

"She'd been dead less than a year, Maggie," he said, quieter now, still vicious, still hurting. "Did you even think about that? Less then a year after losing her and _you_ go and—"

"I had no choice!" Maggie yelled, shrilly, bolting out of her huddled seat to stand upright and facing him. She was crying freely, tears streaming down her face as she screamed. "I was _ordered!_ Six dark wizards and two Corpsetakers and they were going to take over, wipe out the Council, I had _no choice!_"

Harry clenched his fists, more to feel his nails biting into his palms than out of any real desire to hit anything. "You couldn't even tell your family. You couldn't even tell your _father? _I'm a Warden too, Maggie! I am capable of keeping a secret!"

She shook her head frantically, sobbing. "Nobody, nobody, she wouldn't let me tell anybody…and I'm _sorry_, Daddy, I'm so sorry, I didn't have a choice, I'm _sorry..._"

That was enough.

He crossed the room in two quick strides and wrapped his arms around his daughter, holding her as tightly as he could. Maggie threw her own arms around him and cried into his shirt, shaking.

She was alive. She was alive. Every breath she sobbed out, every time her fingers scrambled across his back to get a little closer, even the way she tucked her head down against his chest like she'd done as a child, scared of shadows… she was alive.

"Oh, Maggie," he whispered, and sank down on the couch, settling her on his lap like she was a little girl again, when he could wrap her up and keep her safe. He stroked her hair, rocked her back and forth. "Oh, Maggie. I'm so sorry."

Maggie shook her head again, and cried on.


	3. Chapter 3

Julia was more than ready to have this baby already, and she wasn't even seven months along yet. At least it wasn't as bad as it could be. She'd heard horror stories from both her mother and Arthur's, enough to give her the sweats when she thought about it. But she'd had a textbook pregnancy, no complications, only a touch of morning sickness instead of the five months of wretchedness Arthur's mother had suffered, and the baby only kicked every once in a while. She smiled a little, involuntarily, remembering; her mother, complaining that Maggie had kicked her black and blue and nailed her in the lungs every time, and Maggie retorting from the kitchen that it was only in her nature…

Maggie and her mother. Her smile faded, and she pressed her hand against the curve of her stomach again. At least with Maggie they hadn't seen it coming; there had been no anticipation to make the pain worse.

The phone rang, and grateful for the distraction she levered herself up out of her seat and answered it. "Morgan household, this is Julia," she said.

"Hey, Jujube," her father said, his voice warm with affection. "How are you?"

She smiled again, and leaned against the wall. "Fine, thanks. You?"

He hesitated.

Julia frowned at the phone. Usually that question got a litany of complaints; a client had done this, Uncle Thomas had done that, did you _really_ have to marry a Morgan, Julia, it'll be the end of me someday… but not this silence. "Daddy?" she asked, shifting the phone to her other ear.

He huffed a rough laugh into the phone. "Oh, man, Julia, don't call me that now. Look, you're not going to believe this over the phone. You'd better come over."

She glanced at the clock; Arthur wouldn't be home for at least another hour. She could leave a note… "I'm not sure," she temporized. "What is it? Are you in trouble?"

"No, no. Really, would I ask my baby girl to come bail me out of trouble?"

He'd asked Maggie, once… she shoved the unworthy thought away. She was all he had now, and even if she wasn't her mother, wasn't her sister, he had to love her all the same. "I guess not. What is it, then?"

He paused again. "A surprise," he said, finally. "Just come and see, Juju. I can't really explain it."

"A good surprise or a bad surprise?" She scribbled a brief note for Arthur and tacked it on the table where he'd be sure to see it.

"Kind of both," her father said. "Nothing nasty, just… you'll see."

She worried over his words the whole drive there. Harry Dresden was not usually given to being cryptic. The last time she could remember was when he was worried about something and wanted to talk it over with her mother without worrying anyone else. They still _had_ worried, naturally, and all the more for not knowing precisely what was going on. But he was a man. He didn't quite understand that.

More precisely he was like Maggie. Maggie had always assumed that if her family didn't know how dangerous her work was, they wouldn't worry. And to some extent that had been true—Julia still felt guilty whenever she thought of that last mission. She hadn't even known Maggie was going out again, for goodness's sake. They'd had a sisters outing the week before and Maggie hadn't said a word. If she'd known…

If she'd known she might not have worried anyway. Maggie had been capable, strong, intelligent. She had fully expected that Maggie would live a long and hair-raising life.

Guilt. So much guilt. There had been a time somewhere in her late teens, when Maggie was training to be a Warden and kicking supernatural ass daily, when she'd hated her sister. Not the usual sibling rivalry, either; they'd had that phase and gotten over it before their parents even noticed they'd started. Real, true hatred, because Maggie was everything her parents had wanted.

Maggie was brave and strong and smart; Maggie was the fighter, the honest one, upfront and quick. It seemed like every time she got home she heard some new story about Maggie's exploits. She was graduating, applying to college, going away and coming back new and elegant and polished and she still felt not quite good enough, because she wasn't Maggie.

That had eased a little, when she married; there had been a little spiteful twinge of glee that no one was looking at Maggie the way Arthur looked at her, and then she was over it, living her own life and becoming her own person. She'd found a job she loved, she had Arthur, she had a close and caring circle of friends; what more could she possibly ask for? She was over it. Mostly.

Mostly, that was the key. And then Maggie had died, so sudden, and she couldn't hate her anymore.

Julia hadn't been back to her sister's grave since the funeral. She couldn't force herself to go.

She shook off the dark thoughts as she turned down her father's street. It had nothing to do with Maggie, this call, it couldn't have. Bittersweet news, probably. There might be tears or smiles before the day was out. But her father could not be dying (she could not imagine on what planet that could be construed as good news), and that was really the only horror left for her, from that quarter, anyway.

Harry Dresden was waiting on the curb for her, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his expression distant. He blinked back into reality as she parked, and smiled. "Julia. How are you, darling?" He held his arms open.

"You just asked me that a minute ago, Daddy." She got out of the car and hugged her father. This required some careful negotiation because of her belly, but she managed all the same. "And I'm still fine. I promise."

"Good." He rested his chin on top of her head for a moment, then pulled back, kissed her forehead and said, "Well, come in then."

"Daddy, really," Julia started, following him towards the house. She accepted his hand down the stairs—she usually didn't, but she was so off-balance recently and she really did not want to take a tumble due to pride. "It's not like you to be cryptic."

"I'm not being cryptic," he replied, holding open the door for her. _That_ she'd gotten used to, since nothing up to and including force would ever make him stop (and her mother had tried). "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me. Enter and be welcome in my home."

Julia paused just inside the threshold and gave him a look. "I grew up with parents who fought monsters for a living. My first babysitter was a werewolf and by the time I was five I'd been kidnapped by vampires twice. I'm married to a wizard and I'm not so bad at magic myself. And you claim I wouldn't believe you."

He laughed. "I know. But I'm serious. You wouldn't believe me." He stepped inside, closed the door.

The room probably looked better when it was lit by candlelight as it was now. That, Julia decided, was the sad part.

Her father lived in a pigsty. There were simply no other words for it. Books all over the apartment in untidy stacks, Mouse doing his best impression of a shag rug and the duster inevitably thrown on the floor. Julia made a clucking sound and stepped delicately over a toppled tower of books. "I can't believe you live in this."

"Don't you get smart with me. I've seen your house." Harry frowned absently at the room. "Now where did she go…?"

Julia opened her mouth to ask who he meant.

At approximately the same time, the trapdoor creaked open and the question died on her lips.

Maggie climbed out of the sub-basement lab, looking tense and unhappy. Her dark wavy hair had blonde streaks in it; that and several new lines around her eyes and mouth made her look unnervingly like their mother. She had dropped a lot of weight, probably more than was healthy. And she was very clearly, indisputably alive.

Julia had to sit down. Hard.

"Hey," Maggie said, quietly. She'd dropped her eyes more or less immediately on seeing Julia, and stood next to the trapdoor fiddling with her hair as if she'd quite like to bolt back down into the lab.

"You're alive," Julia said, softly. Behind her, relatively unnoticed, her father went back outside and shut the door.

"Yes." Maggie went to the couch and sat down, curling herself into the corner and hugging a pillow to her chest.

She seemed determined not to talk without being asked questions. Well, all right then, Julia wasn't too proud to ask. Especially not when she was this bewildered. If Maggie wasn't dead…but how could Maggie not be dead? They'd had a funeral. Simon had watched her die. How…

"How are you not dead?" she blurted.

Maggie shrugged uncomfortably. "I faked my death under orders from Commander Luccio," she recited, staring at the floor. "I infiltrated a group working against the Council and helped to bring them down. That's where I've been."

"But Simon said…" Maggie actually flinched at Simon's name, and Julia shut her mouth abruptly. There was a whole can of worms that hadn't been opened yet.

Awkward silence reigned for a moment; finally, Maggie looked up and straight at her sister. "Julia," she said, steadily, "if you're going to yell at me, could you get it over with? It'd be easier for everyone."

Julia stared at her for a moment, and then said, "Stars and stones. Maggie, I'm not going to _yell_ at you, who do you think I am?"

Her sister gave a quick, wry, hurting smile. "Daddy," she said, and tucked her arms just a little tighter around the pillow.

Julia felt her mouth set into a thin line. She was going to have _words_ with her father. "I'm sorry," she said, but the words felt so inadequate in her mouth. Sorry for what? I'm sorry for not being here when our father decided to yell at you? I'm sorry for not knowing you were leaving, not wishing you luck or telling you I loved you? I'm sorry for quietly hating you for years for something you couldn't help or change?

Maggie was shrugging again, her eyes back on the floor. "It's hardly your fault," she said.

Then whose fault was it? "Why'd you do it?" Julia asked, rather at random. "I know under orders, but _why?"_

"Because….I was ordered. I'm not really sure what you're asking, Julia."

She opened her mouth, and closed it again. What _was_ she asking?

"Why did you agree to do it?" she asked, at last, slowly. "Was it something I did?"

Maggie jerked her gaze up and stared at her for a moment, then blurted, "No! Why would you…" She paused, then said, "Well, maybe, in a very strange roundabout way. More the way I reacted to something you did. Nothing you should blame yourself for."

The sinking feeling in the region of Julia's heart could not, unfortunately, be blamed on the baby. "No, Maggie, please. I want to know." She hesitated. "I _need_ to know."

Maggie was quiet for a very long time, so long that Julia was afraid she was right, that Maggie _had_ known about the quiet hatred, and that she had gone away because of it. That she could not forgive it. Her heart sank deeper—had she lost her sister for good?

"You don't remember this," Maggie said, suddenly, startling Julia out of her haze. "But when you were born, I made you a promise. They let me hold you for a little bit while Dad and Mom were talking, and I promised you that I would always keep you safe." Maggie looked down at her lap. "That's why I went, in the end. To keep that promise. That's why I've done most of the things in my life, to keep you and everyone else safe." Her voice sank, and Julia heard the beginnings of a sob beneath the words. "I just wanted to keep my promises."

Well, this was absurd. Julia got up from the footstool she'd thumped down on, sat beside her sister, and hugged Maggie against her shoulder as best she could. It was a little hard, since Maggie was so small and thin and Julia was so tall and distinctly not thin, but they managed, they had always managed.

Maggie cried for some time, making the soft lost snuffling sounds Julia associated with sick children. When she finally lifted her head, she gave a watery chuckle and said, "I'm crying a lot today."

"You deserve it," Julia said firmly, stomping on the guilt some more. "It must have been awful for you."

"It was," Maggie said, her voice soft, then added, a little louder, "I really am sorry, Jujube."

An old, sweet, childish nickname—Julia smiled. "It's okay," she said. "You saved the world."

"I guess I did," Maggie said, and smiled wanly back.

Julia almost said something then—almost said, _A long time ago I would have been jealous,_ almost explained about the envy, the hatred, the guilt. But not now, not when Maggie was still so hurt. Someday when her sister was more herself, she would tell her, and they'd have a roaring fight and put it behind them. But not now.

Now Maggie needed her. So she'd be there. That was, after all, what sisters were for. Julia hugged her sister's shoulders again, and began plotting out the beginning of the fight.


	4. Chapter 4

Simon Allende went through what he supposed were the usual emotions—shock, joy, anger, confusion—in less than an hour after Commander Luccio told him. The shock didn't last very long; maybe a minute or so. The anger bloomed and faded in about five. Confusion took about forty-five minutes to dissipate, even after Luccio had sat him down and explained what had happened very slowly, in short sentences with words of less than two syllables. And the joy… the joy still lingered quietly in the back of his heart.

What he was feeling most right now was hurt. And worried.

The odd part was that he wasn't really hurt because of Maggie, per se. She'd had her orders; she'd done what she had to. That Luccio hadn't trusted him enough to tell him the truth, or let him go with Maggie to help her, _that_ hurt. Surely he could have helped? He was smart, quick, and capable, and more, he was Maggie's best friend. Surely they could have worked something out.

Luccio didn't apparently think so, and Simon had stopped that line of questioning pretty fast. It didn't matter much, anyway. He gathered from what Luccio had _not_ said that Maggie needed a hand, which meant it was past time to be going, which was where the worry came in.

Funny, though. Maggie didn't _look_ like she needed support. She perched on his couch, her legs drawn up to her chest and her chin resting on her knees, watching him thoughtfully as he went about making tea; he knew from past experience that neither of them would drink it, but there was something rather nice about holding a warm mug of tea while you talked.

Simon brought her a mug, watched critically as she unwound herself and took it. "God, you're thin," he said, and sat down beside her.

She made a face. "Ninety-two pounds," she said, and Simon winced. She was _supposed_ to be about a hundred and twenty.

"Eat a sandwich, woman."

She made a face again, this time at him. "I didn't do it on _purpose._ You think I want to look like a twelve-year-old again?"

He watched her for a moment as she stared down into her mug, then asked, quietly, "Then what happened?"

Maggie shrugged, and did not look at him.

"C'mon, Mags," he said, after a long pause. "It's me."

"Stress," she said, flatly.

Simon didn't quite have the courage to press further.

She stared into the mug as if all the answers lay in the swirling tea. He stared at her, categorizing all the tiny little differences two years had left in his dearest friend; thin lines between her eyes, pale blonde streaks in her dark hair. She must have dyed it. Prominent cheek- and collarbones; she'd gain back the weight in time, he thought, but he wasn't sure if those lines would leave her eyes.

She looked up suddenly, and gave a thin smile when she caught him staring. "Look like hell, do I?"

"Not quite hell," Simon said, thoughtfully. "Purgatory, maybe. Did you dye your hair?"

She nodded, a quick, clipped motion, and laughed a little bitterly. "Blonde was a mistake. I look like Mom when I'm blonde."

He put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "She'd be proud of you, Maggie."

"You think so?" She didn't sound like she believed him, but she also didn't wait for an answer. "Thanks, by the way. For not making me apologize."

Simon shrugged. "You're not the one who needs to apologize," he said, dryly. "That little duty lies at the Commander's door."

Maggie made a startled noise. "What'd Morgan ever do to you?"

"Wrong Commander." He hugged her shoulders again. "I don't think I'll ever forgive Luccio for making you do that."

"I…" She paused, looking vaguely surprised, and then said, "You know, I did kind of have a choice in it."

Simon sniffed. "I shall persist in my delusions and you will allow me to keep them. For my sanity's sake."

She giggled. "If you insist."

They stared at their mugs for another long silence, but this one was comfortable, companionable. That hadn't taken very long, Simon thought, absently patting Maggie's shoulder. It was almost like she'd never been away. Almost.

"Maggie?" he asked, finally. "What happened?"

She went still, her spine stiff, and her knuckles whitened on the mug. "I… a lot of things," she said, carefully. "Why?"

"I want to know," he said, choosing his words with great care. "I couldn't be there to help you then, so… I want to help you now."

Silence, then… "I faked my death," she said.

"I know." Quiet hurt made him add, "I was there, remember?"

"Yeah," she said, and sighed. "I guess Luccio told you…"

"…that she arranged the whole thing, yes." He shook his head, and put his tea on the side table. Maggie had abandoned hers a minute before. "I just wish she'd told me. Somehow. I… I went to your father."

Maggie touched the silver star at her throat, her focus, and nodded. "He told me. I didn't want to do it with you there. I figured you'd feel better if I'd gone off on my own and died than if you couldn't save me." Her voice rose, turning the last into a question.

But this was not about him, or how he felt, and he had no intention of letting her turn the conversation that way. "Maybe if you'd actually died, but you didn't, so it doesn't matter. Then what?"

She looked at him, considering, then shrugged. "I went underground, changed my name, set up a life near where the Maligare had set up shop. We have an informant there, Petra Casale, she just told everyone I was a distant cousin and we worked it out like that." She paused a moment, and stared across the room. "That was the hardest part, I think. Actually _being_ someone else. I had to give up everything I believed in and become Ellie—that was the name I picked, Ellie. I had to believe what she believed, and be who she was, and she wasn't—she wasn't a very nice person."

Simon put both arms around here then, and kissed her forehead, and said nothing.

Maggie took a deep breath before she went on, but she did not cry. "When I finally got into the compound—and that took about a year and a half, it was the reason I was gone so long. When I got in, they put me to guarding people. Sacrifices to the Corpsetakers."

He sucked in a breath. "There were Corpsetakers?"

"Two," she said, and sighed. "I knew they were there. R&D worked out a trap for them and that was one of my jobs, to set them up. And I never saw… but they took two people away, and then the next time I saw them they'd be dead. I think I'm glad I didn't see it. Ellie wasn't."

"Oh, Maggie."

"You know I almost got caught once?" She shifted so she could hug him back, or cling—it varied. "They dragged me up to the guy running the whole show and told him I was a Warden. He looked at them, and looked at me, and asked them _which_ Warden, I think 'cause he liked me."

The pause hung for a while, until Simon said, "Or you'd be dead."

She started, blinked, as if she'd gotten lost in a memory. "Yeah. Basically. But they told him Margaret Dresden, and he told them she'd been dead for nearly two years, and the sad part was he was fucking _right._ I wasn't Maggie then, I was Ellie, and I hated her, I hated being her but I had to be her. I hated it."

Simon answered the question she wouldn't ask. "You aren't her. You were never her. You're Maggie, my Maggie, and if you start becoming Ellie again I'll kick your ass. Deal?"

Thank God, thank God, she laughed. It was only a little laugh, and rather wet, but it was a laugh. He hugged her fiercely.

"Deal," she mumbled, a little muffled in his shoulder.

She stayed silent for a while after that, content to be held, until something visibly occurred to her and she sat up a little. "Hey, Simon? Is it always that messy?"

"What?" Simon asked, startled out of his own dark thoughts.

"Sex."

He choked, and stared at her. "Maggie, you are _not_ a virgin."

"I am with men." She paused, then added, "Was, I guess. Is it always that messy?"

He stared at her, and began to feel a little nauseous. "Well, there is a certain amount of guck involved… Maggie, what are you saying?"

"I had sex with one of the leaders in order to get in," she said, and then rolled her eyes. "Don't look like that, I promise it wasn't traumatizing. It was just gross."

"If you say so," Simon said, watching her face closely.

"I'm _fine,"_ Maggie said, not unkindly. She laughed, suddenly. "Anyway, when he did that whole melodramatic 'Why, Ellie, _why,'_ thing I told him 'cause he was a lousy lay. Worth it for the face."

"But you're sure you're okay."

Maggie rolled her eyes again and snuggled close again. "It is absolutely the least painful memory in this whole impossible mess. It's not like I haven't used a dildo before."

Simon thought about that for a moment.

"Hey, Mags? Remember the TMI thing?"

She laughed. "Okay, okay, I'll shut up. If it helps any, you're the only one who got that little detail. Not even my sister heard about that."

"That's because you love your sister and want her to remain unscarred," he retorted. "Whereas you take a sadistic pleasure in tormenting me."

It came out with a little more hurt than he'd meant.

Maggie stilled, then pushed herself properly away, got up on her knees and took his face between her hands, the better to look him in the eye. They'd soulgazed long ago, so there was no fear on that account. She just wanted… what _did_ she want?

"Listen to me," she said, quietly. "I did not do this to you. I did not do this _for_ you, either. I did it because I had orders, because it was the right thing to do, and because nobody else can do what I do. I did it because I promised to keep people safe and because this was the only way I knew how to keep that promise. I did it because I love you, and I love my family, and I love this world, and I want to keep that all the same way. So don't you _dare_ develop a martyr complex over this or I'll… do something unspecified but horrible."

He smiled, rather in spite of himself. "Roast me over a slow fire?"

"Something of that sort," Maggie allowed, generously, dropping her hands and sitting back on her heels. "But slower. And more horrible."

"Gotcha." Simon plucked an invisible pen and paper out of the air, and pretended to take notes. "Slow and horrible death. I'll be good."

"See that you do." She impulsively went back up on her knees and kissed his forehead. "I missed you. You make me feel like me again."

"Glad to help, sweetheart." Simon hesitated, then slung an arm around her skinny shoulders and pulled her tumbling back into his arms. "Don't do it again."

She snorted. "It wouldn't _work_ again. Speaking of, don't try that trick again or I'll dislocate your elbow."

He laughed, and hugged her. "It's good to have you back."

He knew she'd know what he meant.


End file.
